


November 2016

by babybrotherdean



Series: 365 Challenge: 2016 [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 15,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: Collection of 365 ficlets for the month of November.





	1. Three-Hundred Six: Tummyache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “M'dying,” Dean moans from his place sprawled out on the living room floor. His baby brother lays down beside him, giggling at Dean’s distress and crawling closer. “I’m gonna die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft babies. Dean is suffering some post-Halloween trauma.

“M'dying,” Dean moans from his place sprawled out on the living room floor. His baby brother lays down beside him, giggling at Dean’s distress and crawling closer. “I’m gonna die.”

Dean’s surrounded by empty candy wrappers, and Mary bites back a laugh as she remembers how dramatically he’d scattered them during his little binge. She isn’t upset about the mess- it’ll only take a moment to clean up, after all- but is slightly concerned about her son’s well-being, given the mournful sounds he’s making and the way Sammy seems to have accepted his inevitable death by curling up in the crook of his arm and closing his eyes to take a nap.

“Do you have a tummyache, sweetie?” she asks him, walking closer and crouching down in the remains of the Halloween candy massacre. Dean just groans in response, and she struggles to keep a straight face. “That’s how they get you. Lure you in with tasty candy, and suddenly a big bad witch just gobbles you right up.”

Dean opens his eyes just enough to look a little alarmed at that, and Mary has to fight a laugh. “A big bad witch?”

“A big bad witch.” She nods very seriously and watches the rapt attention on his face. “But you’ll be safe, even if you ate your candy, because I’ve already protected us from her. You see the scary stickers on the window?”

Dean cranes his neck back and squints at the cartoonish ghosts and skeletons on their front window before nodding. “Are they keepin’ us safe?”

“They are,” Mary agrees. “They scare the witch away so that no matter how much candy you eat, she can’t ever get you.”

Dean heaves a sigh of relief, and glances down at where Sammy’s just about dozed off beside him. “Good, ‘cause I eated- lots. Lots and lots.”

Mary finally can’t hold her laugh in anymore and nods, reaching out to carefully gather both her babies into her arms. “I can see that. How about we go get you a bath, and see if you feel any better after, hm?”

Dean seems to consider that for a moment as he settles himself in her arms before nodding sagely and settling there. “'Kay.”

“That’s my angel.” A kiss to the top of his head and they’re good to go, so Mary takes them straight upstairs, leaving the wrappers to deal with later.

She’s got a tummyache to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	2. Three-Hundred Seven: Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s always been good at working himself into a bit of a trance while he works, but the longer Sam watches him today, the more he gets the sense that something isn’t quite right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt: "for any reason, Dean being super tired and trying to continue with their daily duties until Sam grabs him and says SLEEP and idk maybe Dean hasn't been sleeping BC of nightmares and Sam finds out IDK AO VAGUE IMSOREY"

Dean’s always been good at working himself into a bit of a trance while he works, but the longer Sam watches him today, the more he gets the sense that something isn’t quite right. He’s quieter than usual, and there’s something hazy and indistinct in his eyes that has Sam watching him closely. He’s going through the motions, cleaning weapons and counting ammo and not really seeming to absorb any of it the way he should be. 

Sam’s been worried about him for days now- days of sleepless nights; of his own rest being disturbed by his brother’s constant movement and indistinct mumbling. Dean hasn’t been sleeping and it seems like it’s finally starting to take its toll on him. Sam decides that he isn’t going to let it get any worse.

“Hey.” Dean’s halfway through taking apart a shotgun with a fine tremble in his fingers that hurts to look at, but Sam catches his wrist, waiting until his brother looks up towards him, blinking in a slow confusion. “It’s naptime. You need to lie down.”

“What?” Dean frowns at him like it’s taking a moment to work through the words, and Sam takes the opportunity to remove the weapon from his hands and set it aside carefully. “I don’t… what’re you talking about?”

“You’re exhausted, and you’re going to bed.” Dean’s bed is covered in firearms so Sam hauls his brother to his feet and manhandles him over towards the second one, letting him flop down onto the mattress when he offers no resistance. “Doctor’s orders.”

Dean huffs at him, but when Sam starts unlacing his boots for him, he stays still and allows it to happen. “You’re not a doctor.”

“Close enough.” He’s rolling Dean under the covers a moment later, and crosses his arms across his chest expectantly. “You’re staying right there until you get some proper sleep, alright? No other options. I’ll deal with the stuff you were gonna do, so don’t worry about anything. It’s dealt with.”

For a long moment, Dean squints up at him like he doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but eventually… he’s quiet when he speaks up, sounding suddenly very young. “Will you stay here?”

Sam softens a little bit, and takes a moment to answer, making sure Dean’s good and tucked into bed. “Yeah,” he sighs, managing a small smile. “I’ll stay. Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Dean gives him a tired smile in return, and his eyes close a moment later while he settles down. He’s out like a light within minutes, and if Sam ends up neglecting the chores he’s assigned himself in favour of watching his brother sleep- well, it’s not like Dean will know any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Three-Hundred Eight: Texting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dean, I think my phone might be haunted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Mary and texting stuff.

_Dean, I think my phone might be haunted._

Once his mom gets the hang of texting, Dean learns what it means to have someone blow up his phone. He and Sam are together often enough that they don’t need to rely on texting much to communicate, and even Castiel prefers to just call. He wonders if it’s easier for her like this while she has her time away from them, but whatever the reason, he starts looking forward to it every time his phone vibrates in his pocket, because Mary will have, inevitably, found something troubling about the future that she feels the need to share.

He loves it.

_How does it know where I am?_

_It’s talking to me. It told me how the weather’s going to be tomorrow._

_How can I trust a phone to know that when the weathermen barely manage it?_

He can help her out, most times, because her problems are easy ones to solve, but sometimes Dean just lets himself soak up the reality of having her here to begin with. Every message she sends is a little collection of words (and sometimes emojis) that his mom typed out with her fingertips and sent to him, all on her own. She contacts him because she wants to; because she’s trying to be his mom, even though it’s hard for her.

She’s alive. She’s here, and she’s… she’s sending him pictures, sometimes, once he explains how to work the camera app, of things she thinks are funny and of landmarks and of food. He saves every single one of them and tucks them away in their own folder and waits for the next time his phone goes off.

_Okay, the ghost is a little helpful. It told me where to find a pancake house._

Even if she isn’t here the way he wants her to be, Dean is getting his fix, and it’s more than enough to get him by.

_Love you both. Tell Sam I said hi. :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	4. Three-Hundred Nine: Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “C’mon, almost done,” Sam murmurs, and he’s gentle in a way he usually isn’t as he finishes bandaging Dean’s side. “Just a little longer, Dean. You’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt: "Dean is a manly man and does NOT cry when he's hurt thanks v much but maybe he gets injured and it's so bad that he's like gasping and tearing up and sam's just lovely and comforting"

“C’mon, almost done,” Sam murmurs, and he’s gentle in a way he usually isn’t as he finishes bandaging Dean’s side. “Just a little longer, Dean. You’re okay.”

His brother is doing his best to be quiet, but Sam doesn’t miss the way his breath is hitching with every movement or the way his eyes are screwed shut tight. He’s gripping the bedsheets with white-knuckled hands and Sam wonders if the whiskey he threw back is doing any good. 

It was a black dog, one they managed to kill before they were done, but one that managed to take a chunk out of Dean on its way down. Its claws raked pretty deep into his side, but not quite deep enough to warrant a visit to the hospital. Sam finds himself wishing they  _had_  gone, if only for the sake of getting Dean some proper morphine instead of alcohol as a back-alley painkiller.

Still, he’s just about finished. Sam fastens the last of the bandage in place and watches Dean’s shoulders sag with relief, left trembling with the aftermath of pain and blood-loss. Sam stays where he is, quiet, then turns just enough to lean in and press a kiss to Dean’s temple.

“You should lie down,” he murmurs, gently nudging his brother until Dean complies. He can’t manhandle Dean the way he wants to without doing more damage, so he’s grateful for Dean’s compliance. “You need to rest a bit. No arguments. It’s bedtime, alright?”

Dean doesn’t get a single word out in protest, simply allowing Sam to unlace and remove his boots before shimmying his jeans down his hips. He rolls his brother under the covers and tucks him in before settling on the edge of the bed for a moment, taking in the pallor of Dean’s skin and frowning slightly, even as Dean’s eyes slip shut.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, not sure which one of them he’s trying to reassure. “You’re gonna be just fine, big brother. You’re too damn stubborn to let some monster off you.”

Too damn brave to turn tail and run the way he should have. Dean always had to be the hero; damn his own health and safety when they were people to protect. Sam loves it as much as he hates it, and as he watches Dean slowly begin to fall asleep, he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t want Dean any other way. 

A different person wouldn’t be the big brother he loves, and Sam isn’t ready to let Dean go. Not for anything.


	5. Three-Hundred Ten: Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam hasn’t been sleeping well recently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous prompt: "Sam wakes up to Dean having a panic attack/crying and trying to hide it (post s8, Sam recovering from trials maybe which is why Dean is stressed) and he comforts his big brother"

Sam hasn’t been sleeping well recently. Or rather, he sleeps like he’s dead, and for no fewer than twelve hours at a time, but he never wakes up feeling rested. He suspects that it’s another aftereffect of the strain that the trials put on his body; even without seeing them through to the end, he feels, most days, like he’s barely clinging to life and normal functioning. Sometimes Dean looks at him like he’s waiting for the moment when Sam’s body just gives up on him and stops working, and Sam feels like maybe he’s waiting for that day, too.

So- so waking up in the middle of the night is kind of new. He thinks maybe he’s just had a nightmare, but he doesn’t feel anything wrong when he starts to sit up. No worse than usual, anyways, since he and Dean have been sleeping in separate rooms, and it leaves him confused, trying to figure out what’s woken him until he hears it again; something shaky and hitched, like a hiccup that didn’t quite make it out, and he’s on alert just like that, rolling out of bed and not bothering with anything but the gun at his bedside before leaving his room.

The bunker might be large, but sound carries far in the empty hallways, and Sam isn’t sure what to expect before he realizes that it’s coming from Dean’s room, just a couple doors down the hall. He frowns a little and lowers his gun, but he’s still cautious as he moves forwards, bare feet silent against the floor as he keeps his senses open for anything out of the ordinary. As he gets closer, though, it’s Dean’s voice that he recognizes, in half-whimpers and other sounds that his brother absolutely should not be making at three o’clock in the morning in the safety of their home.

Sam doesn’t knock before opening the door, but he puts his gun down on the dresser as soon as he steps inside. Dean’s come up swinging from nightmares before, and a firearm really doesn’t have a place in that kind of situation. Dean isn’t asleep, though, as becomes quickly apparent when Sam spots his brother on the floor, and Sam wastes no time in moving towards him.

Dean’s curled up against the side of his bed, eyes squeezed shut tightly and face in his hands. He’s shaking, mumbling something to himself that doesn’t quite sound like words, and all sorts of alarm bells are going off in Sam’s head already, and they encourage him to drop down next to Dean, finding his brother’s wrists with his hands and curling around them gently.

“Dean,” he breathes out, a little scared and a little lost. Nothing’s seemed wrong with Dean, recently, besides his exhaustion… the trials took a toll on both of them, and Sam still feels guilty for making his brother worry so much. It occurs to him that maybe that’s finally built up too high for Dean to deal with by himself, but of course he wouldn’t ask for help. That’s never been Dean’s way of doing things, and something in Sam’s chest aches in a way that’s more than physical.

He manages to pull Dean’s hands away from his face enough to catch the tear tracks on his cheeks, and it’s all Sam needs to get properly to work. Jessica used to have panic attacks, sometimes, and he learned how to deal with them out of necessity and concern; this shouldn’t be too different, and he’s always known his brother better than anyone else in the world. 

Dean comes into his arms without a fight, and Sam shifts him gently until his brother’s head is on his chest, holding him there and starting to stroke his hair while he listens to Dean’s anxious mumbling. “You’re safe, Dean,” he whispers, one hand moving to rest on the back of Dean’s neck as a soothing pressure. “You’re okay. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

He might not know why, exactly, his brother has been driven to this state, but Sam does everything in his power to help work him past it. He loses track of time when they’re sitting together like this, and at some point, Dean starts clinging to him, too, mumbling less nonsense and more “Sammy,” and it’s enough improvement that Sam figures he’s on the right track. 

Eventually, Dean starts to calm down, but neither of them try to separate. It’s something about the unreality of this time of night that makes it easy, Sam thinks; they don’t need to talk about their closeness, and he knows that they won’t. All that matters is that they’re here together, and whatever straw broke Dean’s back, Sam is here to help him pick up the pieces however he’s able.

“You want to go to bed?” Sam asks after a eternity passes, and Dean only nods against his chest, eyes closed and not saying a word. Sam helps his brother to his feet, and they both crawl into bed together without needing to exchange a single word. Maybe they won’t talk about it in the morning, but for now, Dean allows Sam to pull him in close until the space between them does not exist, and it still doesn’t feel close enough.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam mumbles as he starts to drift off again. They’re both exhausted; he can already feel Dean going loose and soft in his arms, and he sighs, nuzzling closer. “M’here, Dean. S’okay.”

Things are quiet in the morning, and they don’t speak a word to each other, but they don’t get out of bed right away, either. Sam spends too many minutes with his big brother curled up warm and awake in his arms, and he can’t help but admit to himself that he’s missed this. He thinks maybe they’ve both missed it, and Dean doesn’t ask any questions when Sam returns to his room that night when they’re ready to go to bed.

It was always better like this, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	6. Three-Hundred Eleven: Tool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember what this was about, but. Dean. Emo. Pain.

Dean tries. He tries so damn hard to be good for the people around him; to act the way he’s supposed to and give them what they need. He tries to be brave and quick and smart when they want him to be, and he tries to smile through it all because that’s what he’s supposed to do. People expect him to be the hero, and he- he tries.

He tries.

It’s hard, though, to keep pretending when he can’t remember why he’s doing it to begin with. It’s hard to look at his friends and family and wonder why he’s here; if maybe they keep him around because he’s a useful tool and nothing more. He doesn’t mean to test them, really, but- but it’s hard not to try to find out where the limits are. Where he stops being an asset and starts being a person and maybe whether or not that place exists at all.

Those are usually the times when he runs. Tools can be replaced, he thinks, but if he’s a person- if he’s a son-brother-friend-ally- then someone will chase him.

Most times, someone does.

They yell, sometimes. They scream. They hit him, too, if they’re angry and he’s scared them and he needs to be shown his own mistakes. Dean lets it happen, most times; the overwhelming sense of relief that he’s being dragged back tends to overpower the hurt that comes with the methods used to retrieve him.

Most times, anyways.

Some things linger. Comments and jabs and accusations; words that echo in the back of Dean’s head when he’s alone in the middle of the night. Words that make him wonder whether you can chase after a tool, after all. Perhaps it’s simply easier to keep a battered, old hammer than it is to find a new one.

But still, Dean runs. Dean turns his back and bids his loved ones farewell, sometimes, because he thinks maybe that he would like to see them drag him back, whatever pain might come with the ordeal. He runs, and they chase him, and he always, inevitably, returns.

Only very rarely does he allow himself to wonder if maybe, just once, he would like to stay gone. Only sometimes does he think he would rather they let him go.

Dean doesn’t like those thoughts, and quietly tucks them away. It’s better for everyone that he doesn’t think any harder than he needs to. Not about this.

Never, ever about leaving his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	7. Three-Hundred Twelve: Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re okay,” Sam murmurs, low and soft because he knows it’s what she needs to hear right now. “You’re fine, baby. Everything’s alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little thing with Jess having issues with panic attacks and Sam helping her.

“You’re okay,” Sam murmurs, low and soft because he knows it’s what she needs to hear right now. “You’re fine, baby. Everything’s alright.”

Jessica always feels so small curled up like this, tucked against his chest like a scared child, and she’s shaking a little bit; fine tremors that always go hand-in-hand with these attacks. They terrified him at first, when he felt like he was entirely unequipped to be of any help, but now- now he thinks he does an okay job, most times.

She didn’t tell him about her disorder until he caught her in the middle of an attack one night, curled up on the chilly bathroom floor shaking and crying with the remains of a shattered glass surrounding her. She wasn’t hurt, thankfully, but it’d nearly scared Sam into calling 911 before she’d managed to talk him out of it. It seemed that too much stress had been building up without an outlet for too long, and breaking the glass had been just a nudge too far for her to deal with.

It’s easier now that he knows what to do. He doesn’t have all the answers he wants, the whys and hows and the easy solutions, but this much is okay. The part where he can gather Jessica up in his lap and hold her against his chest and let her listen to his heartbeat, an even and reassuring metronome under her ear- this is the part he’s good at. He hums, sometimes, and he’ll stroke her hair, and he’ll talk to her. She’s told him before that his voice always helps and he’s never let that go; even once he runs out of reassurances, he’ll talk. Talk about himself, about her, about the new café down the street that they haven’t yet had a chance to visit. He talks about his family, sometimes, or he talks about school, but whatever he manages to come up with, he talks. He talks and he holds her and sometimes she falls asleep right there, energy sapped and ready for bed, and he’ll pick her up like she’s made of fine-spun glass and carry her there.

“Thank you,” she’ll whisper when they wake up the next morning, or sometimes “I didn’t know you liked Harry Potter,” or “it’s really been a year since you’ve talked to your brother?” They talk about it, and that’s maybe the strangest part for Sam after a lifetime of pregnant silences and elephants in rooms. It’s a breath of fresh air and he clings to it as best he can.

“It’s a panic disorder,” she tells him the first time, and she won’t meet his eyes and she sounds ashamed and Sam just pulls her in close again because he’s never, ever going to let this go. “I should’ve told you.”

Sam kisses her instead of speaking because he’s never going to leave this beautiful, lovely, incredible girl, and he’ll gladly accept all of the crooked parts that make up her perfect whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	8. Three-Hundred Thirteen: Fallen Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a cool afternoon in October; comfortable as far as autumn goes, but just far enough on this side of chilly that Mary isn’t shy about getting her little angel all bundled up before sending him out to play in the yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny Dean and. soft.

It’s a cool afternoon in October; comfortable as far as autumn goes, but just far enough on this side of chilly that Mary isn’t shy about getting her little angel all bundled up before sending him out to play in the yard. It doesn’t hurt that he’s absolutely precious in an oversized sweater and a hat that he’s got pulled down over the tips of his ears, and she hasn’t been terribly subtle about sneaking in a couple photos whenever he wanders close enough to the chair she’s set up on the porch.

Dean’s occupying himself with exploring the yard, inspecting every inch of their property while Mary watches him with a little smile and a lot of care, one eye constantly on the road and the sidewalk that borders it, wary of cars and strangers. It’s a quiet day, though, and the most exciting thing to happen has been a woman walking by with a big dog who Dean insisted on meeting. He’s been glowing ever since, absolutely giddy after getting a couple sloppy puppy kisses to the face and smiling wide as he toddles his way around the yard.

Mary’s attention perks up again when she notices him starting to collect a few leaves off the ground, fallen from the big, old maple tree that dominates the yard. The colours have been changing for a couple weeks now, and the leaves have plunged into shades of orange and gold, but they’ve only just recently started falling, making their slow decent towards the ground, one by one. When she looks at Dean again, his brow is furrowed in concentration and he’s taking care in picking up every leaf he finds on the ground, piling them gently in his arms, and she can’t help but be curious.

“Dean, sweetheart,” she calls, and waits until he looks up towards her, cheeks flushed with the cold air and hair a little mussed from the breeze, before continuing. “What’re you doing, baby?”

Dean stands up a little taller, still balancing his pile of leaves like a collection of sacred texts, and smiles at her, big and unrestrained like only young children ever do. “The tree’s droppin’ all her leaves!” he says as if it should be obvious. “I’m gonna help give ‘em back. She can’t get 'em all herself 'cause she doesn’t got any hands.”

Mary’s abruptly overwhelmed with a wave of intense affection for her little boy and doesn’t hide the smile that grows on her face as she stands from her chair. She could take the moment to explain why the leaves are falling, or how they’ll start to decay once the snow falls, or that brand new leaves will grow in their place, come spring…

But for now, it seems that they’ve got themselves a mission.

“Two sets of hands are better than one, right?” she asks, and Dean absolutely beams at her, nodding excitedly before he goes about directing her on which leaves she should start to collect. Mary does as she’s told and starts to gather them up, wondering if it might be worth sneaking a couple inside to press, if only to remember this perfect little day. She knows from experience that innocence and softness fades with time, and she wants to preserve a little snapshot of Dean in this quiet, happy moment.

He starts a little pile by the base of the tree so they can be retrieved by their owner, and before Mary can get him back inside, he swears up and down that he’ll be back tomorrow to keep going if any more leaves hit the ground. Mary manages to steal away a couple leaves for herself, whole and fiery gold and slipped between the pages of an old cookbook to keep safe.

Dean goes to bed that night absolutely exhausted, and he still smells like the outdoors when Mary presses a kiss to his forehead. He’s tiny and determined and undeniably good, and she aches with how badly she needs to keep that safe.

It’s a softness as delicate as the pressed leaves she’s left with weeks later, but she can and will do everything in her power to protect it. She won’t allow Dean’s brightness to fade. Not as long as she’s around to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	9. Three-Hundred Fourteen: Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain is falling outside of the little motel room, blanketing the world in something muted and lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some rainy stuff with. Boys.

Rain is falling outside of the little motel room, blanketing the world in something muted and lonely. The sun has long since set, and it seems that all of existence has quieted itself down for the sake of hanging onto a sense of peace, if only for just a moment. In a time of monsters and chaos, when fear grips the world in its icy claws and every last ray of hope seems to have been extinguished by an overwhelming sense of loss and despair, there exists a tiny, hidden bubble of something warm and safe.

Two little boys hide under the covers; brothers and partners in crime. The older one whispers fantastical stories of heroes slaying dragons, and the younger listens with rapt attention, eyes big and round and full of wonder. All that exists here are a pair of souls, irrevocably intertwined from the moment they began to exist, and the rest of the world fades into the ether, deemed distant and unimportant and not entirely real during these small, secret moments.

Here, they are safe. In this tiny, safe space, monsters only exist in stories, and love always, without fail, triumphs over evil. Here, things are sweet and quiet and soft, and when the younger boy falls asleep with his fingers hooked in his brother’s shirt, he believes that the world and its people are unfailingly, undoubtedly good.

The boy’s big brother curls around him, a little more disillusioned and a little too aware of the thunder that rumbles in the distance. For these few seconds, though- these tiny fractions of eternity, where no one can hear or see or judge- for these few seconds, as he holds his young charge close and vows to himself to protect this feeling of safety, none of it seems to matter.

For these few seconds, he can pretend that he is not afraid. He can close his eyes and convince himself that the world is unfailingly, undoubtedly good, and with the tiny, precious heartbeat he hears alongside his own as he falls asleep, he can almost believe that it’s true.

“Almost” is as good as he can hope for, in this world of monsters and chaos. “Almost” is going to have to be good enough.


	10. Three-Hundred Fifteen: Cosetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees her every single time he opens the trunk, and it’s always a bit of a struggle not to sneak her into the weapons duffle, no matter how hard she’d be to hide from Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grenade launcher.

He sees her every single time he opens the trunk, and it’s always a bit of a struggle not to sneak her into the weapons duffle, no matter how hard she’d be to hide from Sam.

Dean had come into possession of Cosetta entirely by chance. His dad had known just enough of the right guys to secure them occasional access to military-grade firearms, the sorts they can’t get as civilians, and the sorts that the job sometimes demands they get their hands on, all the same. His HK91 came from an old Marine buddy of his dad’s called Johnson; a few bricks of C4 were a show of thanks for clearing out a poltergeist from the house of another man in a similar position. He’s gathered bits and pieces over the years into the organized chaos that makes up the trunk of his car, and he can’t quite help the touch of pride he feels whenever he gets the chance to survey his collection.

But Cosetta- Cosetta is special.

He’d stumbled upon her while his brother was off in California; just another job in a long line of the same, but not very many jobs end in a Cold War survivalist’s house cleared of its inhabitants right along with the ghosts that’d been haunting it. Dean had stumbled upon the armoury completely by accident, and- well, at the time, his dad hadn’t been there to tell him whether or not he could take a souvenir.

These days, she mostly lives in his trunk, carefully tucked away among the firearms he actually gets a chance to use as well as the lower-tech weapons meant for chopping and burning. She smiles up at him every time he visits, shiny-clean with a neat little box of fresh ammo beside her, waiting for her day to come, and Dean can’t help but feel a little guilty every time he needs to close the trunk.

“Dean- Dean,  _no_.”

In hindsight, he really sincerely wishes he’d been able to use her against Hitler.

“We’ll get a chance,” Sam assures him, even as Dean looks down at the weapon in his arms mournfully. Cosetta fits just right here, just as eager for this chance as he is. “It’s okay.”

Eventually, he gives in, shoulders slumping and taking a careful moment to tuck her back in her place. She doesn’t get mad at him, but Dean’s upset enough with himself to make up for it, and he can’t help the way his eyes linger even as his brother continues to load up.

One day, he thinks, he’ll make this up to her. One day, hopefully soon, he’ll get to load her up and make use of the most special weapon he’s ever laid his eyes or hands on, and she’ll be even happier when he puts her back.

Cosetta would’ve liked the feeling of killing Nazis, he’s sure, but she’ll just have to wait another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	11. Three-Hundred Sixteen: Texting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D: Mom!!!  
> D: Bet you’ll never guess what I did today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean is excited to tell Mary about the Hitler thing.

_D: Mom!!!_   
_D: Bet you’ll never guess what I did today._

Mary’s had a few days to get used to texting now, and she has to admit that it’s one of her favourite parts of the future. It hurts to be so far away from her boys, but she isn’t quite ready to come to terms with having lost so much of them since her death. With texting, though- Dean’s good at giving her little bits and pieces of himself through words on a tiny screen that reacts to taps and swipes of her fingertips, and there’s something about the disconnect between the Dean she met when she was brought back to life and the boy who sends her messages through the little chunk of plastic and metal that sits in the palm of her hand makes it infinitely easier to talk to him.

It’s still a work in progress, but she’s learning. It’s mostly little things that he sends her- good morning, goodnight, don’t forget to plug in your phone- and little tidbits of the daily life he shares with his brother. She’s learned that they squabble like a married couple, that Dean does most of the cooking around the bunker they call their home, and that Sam doesn’t protest when Dean hangs around while he does his research. It seems like they exist in a constant field of gravitational attraction with one another, and it’s about as fascinating as it is worrying.

Still, she craves everything he’s willing to offer. Every message is something new to learn about the sons who’ve become strangers to her, and Mary is desperate to fill the gap.

This is new, though, because it’s impossible to miss the excitement coming through the messages. Dean’s been quiet the past couple days, and she’s been worried, but the nine words she’s been given are enough to stop her short in the middle of the sidewalk, quickly finding herself a little bench to sit on while she curls around her phone like it’s some precious thing. She’s in Illinois, following some of her own leads to answer a few questions, but she can afford to take a breathed for now.

_M: Did you… eat an entire pie in one sitting? :)_

She has a very distinct memory of a three-year-old Dean promising her that he’d manage exactly that one day, and can’t help but wonder if this Dean even has any memory of the moment. Her phone buzzes with a response within seconds, though, and her thoughts return to the present.

_D: Well, yeah, but that’s not what I meant._   
_D: I killed Hitler. HITLER!_

That one throws Mary for a loop, and she’s left staring at the screen for a long few seconds.  _Hitler?_

She wonders briefly if there’s someone parading around calling themselves Hitler in the future about whom she hasn’t yet heard when Dean sends another message.

_D: Yeah, THAT Hitler._   
_D: It’s a long story, but I’ll fill you in when you come home._

Mary can’t help the tiny, sad smile that tugs at the corners of her lips, because Dean does this, too. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it, but she needs both hands to count the number of times he’s hinted at waiting for her to come back and what they’ll do together when she does. She just wishes she had a more concrete answer for the unspoken question.

For now, she just breathes. It’s chilly today and her boys are safe at home, and she’ll join them soon. Eventually. She just…

She just needs her time.

_M: Sounds like a good story! Can’t wait. And why am I not surprised that you managed something like that?_   
_M: I’m sure the world is a better place for it, so way to go. I guess that makes you some kind of post-war war hero, hm? :)_   
_M: I need to go, but I love you. Tell Sam, too._

Dean doesn’t respond right away, so Mary carefully puts her phone away and stands to continue walking. It seems that for every question she answers, a dozen new ones arise. It’s all she can do to try to keep her head above water for now.

Maybe if she’s lucky, going back to her boys will help the pieces start to fit. She can only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. Three-Hundred Seventeen: Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The car ride home is very quiet after the concert and their trip backstage, but Jared’s ears are still ringing after all the excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Anonymous said: Hey, I am kinda feeling overwhelmed by all the election things, could you maybe write just some J2 fluff? If you don't or can't, that's fine._

The car ride home is very quiet after the concert and their trip backstage, but Jared’s ears are still ringing after all the excitement. He can still feel the adrenaline- not to mention the alcohol- heavy and quick slipping through his bloodstream, and he can’t quite wipe the fond, goofy grin off his face.

Jensen still seems to be up on Cloud Nine somewhere, flushed all over and absolutely beaming at nothing in particular. He’s been giddy all night, and Jared suspects the beers he’d downed are only a small part of it; even seeing their tickets the first time had his eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store. It isn’t very often that they get a chance to meet their own idols, but seeing Jensen tonight- singing his heart out during the concert, being entirely overwhelmed and over the moon when their passes got them backstage.

Being a TV star does have its perks, at times.

He’s obviously exhausted now, nearly liquid in the way he’s slumped down in his seat, and Jared suspects that, were it not for the seatbelt keeping him upright, he’d have slipped right down to the footwell to take a nap there. As it is, he’s dozing, half-mumbling song lyrics to himself on occasion.

“All the pretty girls,” Jared hears, and has to bite back a smile. “Like… Samuel.” Jensen’s throat sounds completely thrashed, not that Jared’s any better off. “Oh, he doesn’t really share…”

Jared tips his head back to rest against the seat, just watching his best friend mumble himself to sleep. It’s endearing, even past the exhaustion and the tipsy haze and the ever-lingering feeling that his eardrums are about to burst. Can’t beat the concert experience.

“Jay,” Jensen says suddenly, sounding very serious, and he’s turning towards Jared, too, holding a straight face for all of three seconds before breaking out into a wide grin again. “This was… this was awesome, wasn’t it?”

He’s a little softer, now, sincere in a way that makes Jared’s heart ache, and he doesn’t hide his own, answering smile. “It was pretty awesome,” he agrees, and doesn’t so much realize he’s fumbling for Jensen’s hand as suddenly finds himself aware of the fact that their fingers are tangling together of their own accord. Huh. “Like…  _really_ awesome.”

Jensen smiles even bigger and then he laughs, ducking his head and maybe trying to pretend like he’s not going even redder in the cheeks. Jared does his part and pretends he doesn’t notice and that it isn’t adorable. “I had a lot of fun,” he says, like they’re teenagers on their first date, and Jared bites his lip to keep quiet. “Thanks. For, uh- for this.”

“Yeah.” Jared clears his throat a little to speak around the lump that’s formed inside it, and when Jensen peeks up at him again, he’s smiling, soft and warm. “You got it. S’fun doing this stuff with you.”

Jensen smiles again, and they don’t talk anymore, but they don’t pull away from each other, either. By the time they get home, Jensen’s fallen asleep on his shoulder and Jared doesn’t much have the heart to wake him. They stumble inside together and there isn’t much ceremony to crawling into bed, and they’re both asleep within moments, limbs heavy and minds drifting and curled close together, limbs in a tangle and breath mingling together.

They have a love weekend ahead of them, and they’ll probably cling to this exhaustion for the next few days, but neither of them will ever so much as think that it hasn’t been worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	13. Three-Hundred Eighteen: Small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn’t have a damn clue what to do when Dean gets cursed this time around, and he thinks, with a bittersweet tang, that if it weren’t for their mother’s presence, he’d be entirely at a loss for how to handle the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of my predictions/ideas about Regarding Dean before it aired.

Sam doesn’t have a damn clue what to do when Dean gets cursed this time around, and he thinks, with a bittersweet tang, that if it weren’t for their mother’s presence, he’d be entirely at a loss for how to handle the situation.

He’s seen his brother thrown back into a fourteen-year-old body. He’s seen Dean wracked with menstrual cramps, Dean nearly terrified into total cardiac arrest, and even Dean with the brain and instincts of a dog. But this- this is a Dean he doesn’t know how to deal with.

Dean isn’t exactly a small man, but the way he’s huddled himself in the corner of the room makes him look tiny, knees pulled to his chest and hiding his face in his hands and apparently determined that if he can’t see the world, then it can’t see him, either. They need to leave, because the witch is still out there and they’ve got a job to finish, but something about the fine trembling Sam can see in Dean’s shoulders throws him off-kilter, feeling suddenly very young and very out of his league. They still haven’t figured out what the bitch is doing to people, but this is- 

This is enough to scare him, and he’s afraid to even move closer to his big brother. “Dean?”

Except that Mom’s here, too, and she seems to be more in her element than Sam at the moment.

She’s still adjusting, he knows, and things are still strange at home, but she’s still a hunter and Dean is still her son. Whatever struggles she’s having to reconcile him with the little four-year-old she left behind seem to be set aside as she approaches him without hesitation, pressing her gun into Sam’s free hand as she passes by him, and it’s all he can do to accept it, watching with confusion and uncertainty as she slowly moves to crouch in front of Dean. Dean’s shaking only gets worse and he curls in on himself tighter, and it’s only then that Sam identifies the motion- he’s  _crying_ , full-body shakes that suddenly hurt Sam to look at, and he swallows hard, looking down towards his feet so he only hears the next bit of the exchange.

“Dean, sweetheart?” And she sounds real gentle, too, the way she is in his dreams; she doesn’t really sound like this talking to them as grown-ups but he’s got half-memories of this voice singing him to sleep. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Something about that does it, though, because- because Sam hears his mom suck in a surprised breath and when he looks up in alarm, Dean’s suddenly holding her, arms wrapped right around her middle and face buried in her chest, still shaking but clinging now, too, and she only allows a heartbeat’s hesitation before she’s holding him, too, one hand moving up to card through his hair.

What unsettles Sam most is that Dean doesn’t speak. His brother doesn’t say a damn word, even when Sam steps closer and the creak of old floorboards has Dean’s eyes snapping open and locking on him, something young and vulnerable and terrified there that cuts Sam to the bone. He’s at a fucking loss because he still doesn’t know what’s  _wrong_ , but it wouldn’t take a genius to connect these dots, and Dean is scared of him. Dean is terrified for no reason that Sam can name, but he’s clinging to their mother like she’s the only lifeline he has, and he can’t put the pieces together and he  _hates it-_

“I’ve got you,” Mary whispers suddenly, and Sam can’t breathe past the lump in his throat. She sounds less like the woman he’s come to know as a hunter and a friend and more like the mother he was taught to revere and his heart aches with it. “I’m here, Dean. You’re safe.”

She’s talking to Dean like he’s her little boy again and it hits Sam all at once that maybe that’s  _exactly_ what’s happened.

He takes one more look at the lost, terrified look in his big brother’s eyes and then he turns abruptly on his heel and leaves the room.

He can’t do this. He can’t deal with his brother not being his brother anymore; he can’t look into Dean’s eyes and see the scared little kid he never really knew. Sam can’t even process it; can’t think to superimpose that kind of image onto the face and body with which he’s become so familiar throughout his entire life.

He can’t exist in the same space as his mother when she’s like this, and he can’t look at Dean and see that abject state of fear. He can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	14. Three-Hundred Nineteen: Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Mary Winchester, it comes with the little bundle of joy and normalcy and safety in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the ways in which people see Dean as beautiful.

For Mary Winchester, it comes with the little bundle of joy and normalcy and safety in her arms. It comes in tiny fingers and soft cheeks and big, curious eyes, just the same as hers. It comes in a feeling of  _finally_ , and a sense of reaching a resting point that always seemed to be far on the horizon, unattainable and lost.

It comes with the little boy who means she’s allowed to live a real life, and she vows to protect it at any and all costs.

*

For John Winchester, it comes in those tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reminders of the woman he loves. It comes in a child’s laughter and unquestioning trust, just as much as it comes in his wife’s pretty green eyes and a fine dusting of freckles. It comes in “night, Daddy,” and a quiet sort of determination to hold together the shambles of their little family.

It comes with a son turned into a soldier, and being no less soft for it. He won’t let anyone hurt his little boy.

*

For every monster that lurks in the shadows, it comes as a speck of light against a backdrop of darkness. It comes in a foreign sense of fear, and it comes in the first time they are forced to quit being hunters and submit to becoming the hunted. It comes in quick strikes and swinging blades and iron bullets, and it comes without hesitation or mercy.

It comes as a brutal and efficient death, and the whispers start to spread about the boy who slays monsters, and about the grace with which they each meet their end.

*

For the demons, it comes as a new plaything. It comes as something soft and vulnerable which they then tear to shreds, laughing with a twisted sort of glee as its remains struggle to cling to their softness. It comes as a game, a who-will-break-the-new-toy, and it comes as endless entertainment when they repeat the whole thing, day after day for decades on end.

It comes as a challenge, because most men don’t last ten, and thirty years is a long time in Hell. It comes as a hollow kind of victory when the light starts to dim, because a broken toy is fun for nobody, and it comes as a quiet sort of disappointment that it didn’t last forever.

*

For the angels, it comes as a bright and righteous soul to be fished out of Hell, and for Castiel, it comes in the soft warmth that soul maintains after being shattered in the darkest part of the known universe. It comes from ever fibre he spins into repairing its vessel, and the glow that persists through a barrier of mortal flesh. It comes in something different, something  _human_ , and something that forces him, for the first time in his existence, to think for himself.

It comes with pain and sacrifice and the loss of everything he’s ever known, but it comes without regret. He has no intention of abandoning his charge.

*

For Sam Winchester, it comes as a guiding hand, a teasing voice, and a quick smile. It comes as everything he’s ever known, and everything he’s ever unconditionally loved. It comes as screaming and tears and heartbreak as often as it comes as laughter and affection and comfort, and it comes in the only way that ever would have felt right. It comes in wins and losses and fear and blood, and it comes in the arms that wrap around him at the end of the hardest days, supporting his weight and his heavy heart and the tiny voice inside that whispers about being alone in the world.

It comes as his precious big brother, and it comes in a way that will never, ever be replaced. It comes too hard sometimes, or too messy, but it he holds on tight, all the same. He will not allow an unhappy ending.

*

When people look at Dean Winchester, they see something they want to protect. They see something quiet and hidden and battered; something that clings to survival against every odd and tries to be every kind of good that exists in this twisted world. They see something delicate, something fragile, and something that curls up tight and remains whole, despite everything that tries to rip it apart. They see something soft, and something pure, and something that does not exist outside of this tiny speck of a human soul.

When people look at Dean, they see something  _beautiful_ , and every single one of them wants to keep it for themselves. Every single one of them gets a taste of that beauty and tries to stake their claim, as mother-father-master-saviour-brother. Every single one of them holds on tight, and every single one keeps a piece for themselves.

Dean is something soft and sacred and beautiful, and he will never, ever try to stop others from taking their share. The entirety of his being is the only thing he knows how to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	15. Three-Hundred Twenty: Retirement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ever think about goin’ back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That time Jensen decided to write some Sam/Dean fan fiction on stage and I felt the need to... write it... a bit...

“You ever think about goin’ back?”

They play this game sometimes, when the nights get quiet and the fire gets low and they’re just a pair of old men sitting on a pair of old, wooden chairs. It’s always peaceful out here, despite Dean’s initial apprehension about moving so far into the wilderness (“fuckin’ bears, Sammy, we’re gonna get eaten by bears-”), and Sam’s real good at coercing his brother out onto the porch to watch the stars. They come through here clearer than they ever do in the city, and it’s almost just like old times, sprawled out on the front of the car beside some empty stretch of highway.

Almost.

Dean’s still got that itch under his skin, some days. Mostly just when Sam’s off doing his own thing and he’s been left to his own devices. It’s that deep-seated need to find something evil and kill it, and it was damn hard to ignore in those first few years. He’s pretty okay at it now, or at least, over time, he’s gotten better at finding ways to distract himself.

Sam’s the best at keeping him occupied, and they spend most of their time together, anyways, holed up in their little cabin or exploring the woods they’ve come to know as their home. So damn far off the beaten path that it’d be hard to find even by accident. It’s the way they like it, though; last thing they need is anyone trying to track down the infamous Winchesters, whether for help or some kind of backdated revenge.

Revenge seems pointless, these days. Stupid. The thought of it always gets Dean’s joints aching, same way they do when there’s a thunderstorm rolling in. Figures he’s too old to deal with that shit anymore, and things are simpler this way.

But then there are the times like this, when he or his brother can’t help but wonder about the real world; the one that exists outside this bubble of peace they’ve created for themselves. They’ll be out on the porch in the middle of the night, huddled up in matching deck chairs under too many blankets to shield fragile skin and old bones, and one of them will ask that question, except it’s not so much a question as it is the first line of a carefully-rehearsed script.

Sam starts them off tonight, and Dean breathes out a white puff of chilly, November air before reading his part.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs. He doesn’t look towards his brother, and he knows Sam isn’t looking at him, either. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed; they’re still shit at talking to each other. They’re better at communicating, though, and it tends to come quietly, with brushes of fingertips and sharp looks and hitches of breath. It’s their own little language, one of brothers and too little distance and not enough of each other. Never enough, not in all the decades they’ve been stubbornly clinging to this Earth, but hell; maybe they’ll get there someday. “Kinda miss cable TV.”

Sam will laugh like he’s breathing and they’ll both be quiet for a little while, just soaking up the white noise around them. Wind blowing, leaves rustling. Birds, sometimes. Wildlife mostly steers clear of these parts, and Dean wonders, some days, if they give off some kind of aura; a spiritual “Do Not Disturb.” Wouldn’t be surprising, with everything they’ve suffered; every supernatural influence under which they’ve been forced.

Eventually, though, Sam speaks up again, just like always. Just like they’ve practised. Dean could mouth the words right along with him if he wanted to. “Why d'you stick around, then?”

That’s when they look at each other, finally, and- and this part has changed over the years. Just a little bit. Sam’s going grey, and there are lines on his face that show his age, and he’s not as toned as he was when they were younger, and Dean knows he’s just as different. Not a damn thing they can do about the gradual decay of the human body. But still, they look at each other, and they stare too long, and they memorize every single detail, and it’s- it’s important, because every line and every grey hair and every aching joint is one more reminder of how fucking far they’ve come. Every second of age that shows on their skin is one more reminder that they’re out.

They won.

“Like you don’t know,” Dean says, and it’s just as soft as always and he’s trying not to smile, but he fails. As usual. “Bitch.”

Sam grins right back at him, eyes going all crinkly in the corners, and he turns his gaze back towards the sky above, painted in distant light and make-believe shapes; a million universes compounded into a single game of connect-the-dots. “Jerk,” he breathes out, and neither of them say a word when the backs of their knuckles bump each other, and it’s a natural next step for their fingers to interlock, holding on tight as they fall quiet one more time.

Maybe they’ll go through this again tomorrow, or next week, or in a couple years, but no matter how many times they want reasons- no matter how many time they quiz each other and question loyalty and devotion and love and happily-ever-after- no matter how much times slips them by or how many memories try to drag them back in, they will always be  _here_.

This will be their forever, and now that they’ve put down their roots, nothing will tear them away from eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	16. Three-Hundred Twenty-One: Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These sorts of days are always sleepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a sleepy, cozy thing.

These sorts of days are always sleepy. It’s not a motel this time; just a little hunting cabin on the outskirts of town that makes it even easier for Sam to be acutely aware of each and every raindrop that splashes against the roof or the old, dusty windows. It’s not so much that they’re on a job as it is they’re staying somewhere easy and close in case they’re needed, but far-removed enough that they’ve got some space to breathe outside of the stifling air that always permeates the small towns they frequent. It’s not exactly the wilderness; when it gets especially quiet at night, Sam can just barely hear the big transport trucks that roll by on the highway, but it’s closer to peace and quiet than they’ve had in a few months, and he’s long since learned to take whatever he can get.

Dean’s asleep now. He conked out pretty hard after dinner, mumbling something about a food coma before crawling into bed with his boxers and a little wave and not a whole lot else. All it means is that Sam’s allowed to watch him without fear of being caught and called on it, and, well- he knows better than to let these opportunities slip away.

They’ve got a fire going, and the cabin’s warm, and Dean’s only got a sheet covering the lower half of his body, leaving the rest of him exposed to the air. Sam’s not shy about drinking in every bit of the sight it gives him, because his brother’s never this vulnerable when he’s awake and there’s something quietly beautiful about the dusting of freckles across his shoulders that matches the pitter-patter of rain outside; a juxtaposition of warm and cool that makes it hard to tear his eyes away. Impossible, maybe.

He still doesn’t really know what they are anymore. Lines are blurry and constantly being crossed, and maybe that’s what lands him sitting on the edge of the mattress, quiet and careful because Dean’s been a light sleeper since the day their house burned down, but his brother doesn’t stir and it makes Sam wonder if maybe Dean’s subconscious knows that he’s safe. Regardless, it gives him the little go-ahead he needs and then he’s touching, too; fingertips petting very fragile patterns across the parts of Dean’s skin that are still soft, no matter how much the rest of him has gone hard and jagged after everything they’ve been through together. Dean’s eyelashes flutter and he breathes out a sigh, and Sam thinks he’s too fucking pretty for his own good.

But still, the rain falls. The fire crackles, burning low and begging for fuel that Sam ought to fetch for it. Dean sleeps, small and delicate in the way he curls around his pillow like a child seeking comfort from a cotton-stuffed best friend, and Sam breathes in through his nose before standing up and dropping his hands.

The world keeps turning, and Sam can’t stare at his big brother forever. Whatever they are, and whatever else they’re supposed to be, there are surely other things with which he could be spending his time.

If his eyes keep drifting towards Dean after he adds some wood to the fire and picks up a book, then Sam decides it isn’t entirely his fault. A stronger man might be able to resist, but.

But Sam’s always had a hard time being strong when it comes to Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	17. Three-Hundred Twenty-Two: Father and Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time the door’s closing behind her, John still doesn’t know exactly what “family emergency” could possibly be pulling Mary out of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary hunting while Dean was little means John taking care of the little lad. Aw.

By the time the door’s closing behind her, John still doesn’t know exactly what “family emergency” could possibly be pulling Mary out of the house. He knows as well as she does that both her parents are dead, and if she’s got any extended family, he’s sure never met them… but with the restless look in her eyes and the way her fingers have been trembling recently, he knows better than to ask too many questions.

Regardless of the reason, it leaves him in a bit of an odd situation. It’s not that he’s never been alone with his son before, but there’s a very fine line between watching Dean for a couple hours while Mary steps out of the house, and suddenly taking full responsibility for his health and safety for probably a few days, exact timeline pending. It leaves him more than a little bit worried, because there’s a whole lot that a not-even-two-year-old can do to get himself hurt (or worse, he tries not to think), and-

And, well, John figures it’ll be a long few days.

As much as he expects the world to come toppling down around him as soon as his wife pulls out of the driveway, John finds Dean right where he left him; sitting in his high chair and humming to himself, tongue poking out between his lips as he makes a mess of what’s left of his breakfast. Just milk and cheerios, but the kid’s gone and spread them out all over his little tray, apparently very pleased with himself if the smile he grows is of any indication.

“Hey, buddy,” John says as he makes his way over, and- okay, it’s hard not to find something funny about the whole situation. It gets even better when Dean looks up at him, absolutely beaming with pride and excitement over his creation. “You all full?”

Dean giggles and waves his arms up in the air, a signal that John’s been trained to interpret as a desire to be hugged. He’s a pretty straightforward kid, most times. “Dada!”

“Yeah, I’m here.” John laughs and very gingerly lifts Dean out of his seat. He’s a bit of a mess, and is probably due for a bath after the cereal bath he’s given himself, but hell; he can’t say no to that face. He pulls Dean right to his chest, only wincing a little bit when he feels the milk remnants wetting his shirt, and figures that maybe he’ll take a shower, too. “Sounds like we’ve got a few days to ourselves, huh?”

Dean’s already curled up right close, fingers gripping at John’s shirt, and he yawns before tucking his head in, too. If there’s any one word to describe John’s kid, “affectionate” has to be it. Maybe “clingy.” Mary usually gets the brunt of it, when she’s around, and John gets to watch secondhand, but now it’s… it’s here, suddenly, and his little boy is in his arms and he’s feeling an intense surge of affection for him, and he can’t help but think it’s kind of nice.

Maybe this won’t be so hard, after all.

“How ‘bout we get you all cleaned up,” John murmurs, already starting towards the stairs with his arms tight around Dean, protective. “And then maybe we’ll see if there’re any cartoons on, 'kay?”

Dean just gives a happy little wiggle before settling in place once more. If John didn’t know any better, he’d think the kid was falling asleep right then and there. Either way, he holds on tight, starting to hum somewhere low in his chest without really needing to think about it.

Dean is soft and warm and tiny in his arms, and Mary has put her trust in him to take care of their little angel. John holds him a little tighter and takes a deep breath before ducking his head to press a rough kiss to the top of Dean’s head.

They’ll be okay, and Mary will be home soon. Dean seems to like him just fine, and that’s more than enough to get him by for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	18. Three-Hundred Twenty-Three: Comfy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a lazy evening tonight, just the pair of them holed up in their motel room after an easy job with a couple beers and basic cable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cozy brothers.

It’s a lazy evening tonight, just the pair of them holed up in their motel room after an easy job with a couple beers and basic cable. Sun’s gone down, take-out boxes are in the trash, and they’ve migrated to the couch to watch the game, comfortable and quiet.

Dean can’t help the way his eyes keep drifting towards his brother, though. Sam’s got himself good and sprawled out, sunk down deep into the couch cushions with the neck of his beer between two fingers and resting against his thigh. He’s long-since abandoned his shoes and socks, and his knees have fallen wide apart, loose and casual in a way that he hasn’t looked in a very long time.

Dean knows that his brother’s seen some shit, over the years, but this- this is nice to see. Sam smiling; Sam relaxed. He looks entirely content with himself, one arm thrown over the back of the couch like an unspoken invitation, and… well, who would Dean be to refuse it?

He feels just as warm as he looks, and Dean tucks himself into his brother’s side with a little huff of breath, settling down deep to make it clear he doesn’t intend to move any time soon. He feels the way Sam glances down towards him, and speaks up before Sam has a chance to. “Don’t say it.”

Sam, being Sam, says it anyways. “You look cozy.”

“Yeah, well you looked comfy. Shut up.”

Sam snorts, but doesn’t say a damn word once his arm settles around Dean’s shoulders properly to pull him that tiny bit closer. It’s quiet again and Dean’s eyes drift back towards the TV, soaking up his brother’s happiness like the sponge he’s learned how to be and taking the time to appreciate this little fraction of his life.

Comfortable isn’t always something he knows how to recognize anymore, with how often it seems to slip through his fingers and out of reach, but here, now- he’s pretty damn sure that this is it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	19. Three-Hundred Twenty-Five: Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, she just watches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary and baby Sammy.
> 
> The ficlet for day 324 was uploaded separately as [Lifeline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609938), if you want to check it out!

Sometimes, she just watches. Stands by the wooden crib like she’s guarding something precious (she is) and curls her fingers gently around its bars like she needs to be reminded it’s even real (she does). It’s like a little ritual she’s adopted ever since he was born, forever anxious of something going wrong.

Of course Mary remembers the demon. There’s no way she could have ever forgotten; the sound of John’s neck snapping haunts her every waking moment. She’d counted the days, and she’d waited, and she’d watched, and when the time came- when she was in the hospital, clutching her husband’s hand and giving birth to her second child- everything had been a little bit too quiet.

So now she just- she just. Watches.

Sammy’s a quiet sleeper, and he’s a quiet baby. Maybe she’s just comparing him to Dean, her ever-more-talkative toddler, but she thinks maybe that Sammy’s just a little bit special, too. Looks at her like he’s older than he has any right to be and only cries when something is urgent. Now, though, he’s peaceful, little fingers curled gently and lips parted while he breathes, looking soft and warm and safe in his crib.

Mary doesn’t know a whole lot about being safe, but it’s hard not to read it into this picture.

Eventually, she’ll get tired, and she’ll pull herself away, because Sammy needs his rest and she needs to be functioning tomorrow in order to care for both of her little ones, but it’s always with a little apprehension; a little worry. She can’t help but wonder  _what if_ , no matter how hard she tries to push it to the back of her mind.

Safe, though. This is safe. She is safe, and the tiny family she’s built is safe.

It’s hard to believe most days, but she tries to convince herself it’s true, all the same. It’s the only way she ever manages to close her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	20. Three-Hundred Twenty-Six: Sleepy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s nothing quite as endearing as watching Dean exist first thing in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy Dean.

There’s nothing quite as endearing as watching Dean exist first thing in the morning.

Sam thinks, in hindsight, that it’s maybe one of the very reasons he started waking up so early in the first place. Sure, there are other reasons- first dibs on the shower, an early run, getting to pick breakfast before his brother has the chance to drown him in grease-soaked everything- but his favourite part of being up at the crack of dawn is getting to experience every moment of Dean before he gets his coffee in him. It’s the sort of show he doesn’t think he’d be willing to miss for anything.

It starts with the shuffling. Dean will emerge from his room, or just roll right out of bed when they’re at a motel, and he’ll drag his blankets with him sometimes, too. He’ll huddle them around his body like a protective shield from the sunlight and cold air, and Sam will watch with poorly-hidden amusement as his brother heads straight for the bathroom. He never speaks this early, except, sometimes, for post-dream mumblings, and when he gets the chance, Sam scribbles down every word he manages to catch. There’s no blackmail like sleepy morning blackmail, and to this day, he’s sure that “s'this look pr'tty, Rhonda?” is his favourite bit to bring up.

Some days, when he’s especially grouchy, Sam will be able to hear Dean knocking around and cursing through the bathroom door. He’s not especially creative before the sun’s properly risen, so there’s always a lot of “fuckin’ bitch sink,” and “son of a- stupid,” and other insults that his brother is much too proud to ever utter in the light of day. Sam gets a kick out of them, though, and he’ll listen and wait until Dean reemerges, sometimes a little cleaner and usually with his hair sticking out every which way if he’d managed to stumble into the shower.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” is usually the most that Dean will mumble in his direction, but Sam will prod him into more, sometimes. Just when he’s feeling like a little shit.

“You’re looking chipper.”

“Shut it, dickbag.”

Maybe he shouldn’t take quite so much pleasure in torturing his sleepy big brother, but hell if Sam can help it.

Then again, Sam’s also usually the one who’s got a coffee waiting for Dean by the time he makes it far enough to want one, and the one to press it into his hands when he fumbles blindly in the general direction of breakfast. Dean usually huffs instead of thanking him, but it’s worth the cute way his nose wrinkles up at the strong, bitter flavour of it. Both of them pretend that Dean likes his coffee black, no matter how many sips he steals from Sam’s sweeter drinks, and it’s always most fun to see first thing in the morning.

By the time Dean’s up and moving, though, it always seems like he’s forgotten all about their little exchange and his own grumpiness. He’s on the job, ready to roll out, ready to get some real food in his stomach. He’s talking, he’s moving, and Sam just has to hide his smile as best he’s able.

Sleepy, grouchy Dean is the sort of sight that no one else gets to see, and- well, maybe he enjoys that a little bit more than he should. It’s not like anyone else will ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	21. Three-Hundred Twenty-Seven: Freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam breathes out a little laugh against Dean’s skin, and he huffs, shifting. It’s kind of ticklish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freckles and brothers and stuff.

Sam breathes out a little laugh against Dean’s skin, and he huffs, shifting. It’s kind of ticklish. “You didn’t tell me you had freckles everywhere.”

Dean rolls his eyes, trying hard not to arch up with the shivers that Sam’s fingertips trace down the length of his spine. It’s a slow Sunday morning and they’re curled up in bed together, and Sam seems to have taken it upon himself to map out every inch of Dean’s skin with his eyes and his hands. “Like you didn’t know.”

“I might’ve had a suspicion.” Sam must lean in closer, then, because there’s  a brush of lips right against the middle of his lower back and Dean turns his head to hide his smile in the pillow. “But they’re even cuter up close and in person.”

“If you say so.” Dean just laughs and settles down once more, though every feather-brush of Sam’s fingertips against his skin has him arching, shoulderblades drawing together with the ticklish sensation. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

There’s too much mischief in Sam’s answer for Dean to trust it. “No, of course not. Why would you ever think that?”

“Asshole.”

Dean doesn’t need to look to know that Sam’s grinning, but his brother’s touch gets a little firmer next time, not sending quite the same signals and allowing him to relax the way he wants to. “You still love me.”

Dean still snorts, though, because this is how they do things. “You wish.”

They get quieter after that, and maybe that’s what makes it a little easier to settle down when Sam gets softer with him, trailing kisses over his shoulders and down his back, just about lulling him back to sleep. He’s not entirely opposed to this, he decides, and closes his eyes once more just to soak it up. They can take this little moment for themselves. They deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	22. Three-Hundred Twenty-Eight: Fatherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a day goes by that John doesn’t wish he could do better for his boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John feelings.

Not a day goes by that John doesn’t wish he could do better for his boys. He wishes they had a home, a proper chance to go to school, a  _mother_ \- instead, they get instability and fear and monsters. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t wish, with all his being, that he could change it, but for now, it seems that he’s doomed to watch his children grow up too fast and too rough, his only solace being that maybe they’ll be safer in the long run.

It’s rare that he gets to see them for what they are anymore:  _children_. They’re two little boys, Dean not even yet in the double-digits, and they’re deep in their mess of a childhood, and in rare, fleeting moments, it becomes exceedingly apparent that some part of them is still trying to cling to that, tooth and nail. Little things slip by, in carefree laughter, childish games, nonsense statements that seem to be perfectly logical between the pair of them. Moments of longing that he pretends don’t break his heart, whether it be for a new toy or a sports team or the nuclear family that was so ruthlessly torn from them so early in life.

Some moments, though- sometimes, he’s luck enough to catch them, and John is no longer shy in letting himself enjoy it.

It’s been a long day for them all; a drive that took them across four states to get to the next lead, a late night, and a half-hearted dinner. Sammy’s already out cold, curled around a battered old pillow in place of his brother and snoozing away, dead to the world and happily catching up on the rest that all three of them so desperately need right now. John’s securing the room, and he’s keeping one eye on Dean- Dean who’s sort of staggering around as he tries to clean up the clothes they’d all dropped haphazardly upon their arrival; he’s got a very endearing way of trying to make their motel rooms as comfortable as possible, and John’s never had the heart to try to stop him. Now, though, he’s obviously wiped, and once John’s done laying down the last bit of salt, he sets the canister aside and heads over to his eldest. His brave little soldier, and his beautiful little boy.

“Time for bed, champ,” he murmurs, and Dean barely has time to glance up and give him a few confused blinks before he’s scooped right off his feet, giving a little huff as John hoists him into the air. “C'mon, it’s been a long day. You need to sleep.”

Dean furrows his brow slightly, but maybe it’s being in John’s arms or feeling the warmth he’s giving off or the fact that he’s finally being confronted with his own exhaustion, but he goes soft and pliant almost right away, yawning once before snuggling close, a sleepy sort of trust in the sound he makes once he’s settled there. John’s heart pangs and he hugs Dean a little closer, taking a deep breath before carrying him to bed.

There’s no resistance when he carefully tucks Dean in with his brother, and the two of them are as good as a pair of magnetic octopi, clinging to each other within moments. He can’t help his tired grin, tucking them in a little more securely before turning to flick off the light for good and crawl into his own bed.

He wishes, more than anything, that he could give them a proper childhood; that he could give them safety and security and a place to call home. He wishes they could be normal, and he wishes he knew better how to make them happy, and he wishes-

He just wishes things were right for them. He wishes he knew how to be the best dad out there. If nothing else, though, John will always console himself with the fact that they will never know a life without love; the last thing he will ever allow is for his boys to drift so far that they don’t feel how much he cares for them.

Mostly, though, above all else, he can make sure that they’re still his boys. It’s all he can do right now, and it may just have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	23. Three-Hundred Twenty-Nine: Turkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean,” Sam whines, long and drawn-out and much more melodramatic than Dean’s name has ever really deserved, “I’m gonna die. I’m dying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving.

“Dean,” Sam whines, long and drawn-out and much more melodramatic than Dean’s name has ever really deserved, “I’m gonna die. I’m dying.”

Sam’s sprawled out on the floor, spread-eagle but for one arm thrown over his eyes like the overhead light is just bringing him closer to his demise. Dean’s not much better off, but he’d managed to stagger to the closest bed before collapsing, pants unbuttoned and feeling more full than he’s ever felt in his entire life.

Well, at the very least, more bloated than he’s felt since this time last year.

“You’re not gonna die,” Dean mumbles, though he’s not entirely convinced of the fact himself. They hadn’t been shy about stocking up on food for Thanksgiving this year; Dean’s been eating pretty much since they woke up that morning and they’re suffering for it now. “If you die, then I’ll have to burn your body, ‘cause Dad won’t be back before you start stinkin’, and then I’ll die, too, 'cause standing up will kill me.”

Sam just moans with agony in his general direction before turning his head to the side, apparently choosing the suspicious carpet stains over logic for the time being. Dean can’t really blame him.

Some amount of time later, Sam must gather the strength to move, because he hauls himself to his feet and makes it all the way to the bed Dean’s claimed before falling over once more, grunting with the impact and then lying still. Dean cracks one eye open from where they’ve slipped shut to squint at his brother for a moment, curious as to whether or not he’s still alive after such a dramatic landing, and then decides that a nap sounds a lot easier than checking.

“Dean,” Sam mutters into the bedspread, and it’s barely intelligible, but Dean huffs to make it clear that he’s listening. “Let’s never do this again.”

It seems like a fantastic idea at the time, like maybe his little brother is even more of a genius than he’s ever imagined- they could just not stuff themselves, and they wouldn’t end this holiday this way every single year- and Dean mumbles something that’s almost an agreement before promptly falling asleep.

Naturally, they do the very same next year, and every year after that. After all, there’s got to be something said for holding up tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	24. Three-Hundred Thirty: Thankful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary’s family never made a very big deal out of Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Thanksgiving.

Mary’s family never made a very big deal out of Thanksgiving. Her mother wasn’t much of a cook, so they didn’t bother with the fancy dinner. Mostly, if they shared the things for which they were thankful, they centred around hunting; being thankful for being alive and well was more than enough for them, most times, so it never seemed terribly important to look past that.

With John, she was a little more keen on trying. They got in a couple proper Thanksgivings before- well, they managed a couple of them, even if the turkey was a little dry and the cranberry sauce came from a can and they didn’t have any extended family to invite over. It was them and their then-only son, clinging to each other and the life they’d built and being thankful that they had everything they did.

But now it’s 2016 and Mary doesn’t have that family, anymore. She has two grown men who still feel like strangers and who look at her like a gift from the heavens (not that it’s entirely inaccurate), and she has a mess trying to disguise itself as her life that she can’t seem to sort out.

Leaving Sam and Dean behind was no easier the second time around, but she takes a little comfort in knowing that they’ve come to more of an understanding. The separation finds her, this time, in a little diner on the outskirts of Boulder, Colorado, with a plate of food that passes for homemade but isn’t quite as good at what Dean had been feeding her, and she can’t help but wonder whether or not the boys celebrate this particular holiday.

Regardless of that answer, she finds herself taking a slow, deep breath, lacing her fingers together as she rests her elbows on the table and ducks her head a little bit. She no longer clings to the faith she used to have in angels, and she does not intend to pray, but there’s no harm in taking a quiet moment to herself over a plate of turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes to think about what she has. It makes sense to start where she always has.

“I’m thankful for being alive,” she says very quietly; though the diner is mostly empty this late, she doesn’t want to draw unneeded attention to herself. “I’m thankful that I was brought back… even if it was a little unexpected.”

Mary tries very hard not to think about the family she left behind, because that isn’t what this is supposed to be about. “I’m thankful… that I didn’t come back alone.” It’s hard to admit, but she can’t imagine where she’d have ended up, were that the case. “I’m thankful that- that Dean was there to take me home.”

This is the hard part, she thinks, and her grip goes white-knuckled as she squeezes her eyes shut a little tighter. “I’m thankful,” she whispers, “for my boys. For- for the fact that they’ve got each other. That they’ve made it this far. That they’re survivors.”

She swallows thickly and decidedly ignore the burn of tears trying to form. “I’m thankful that they want me,” she adds softly. “I’m thankful that they’re still willing to give me a chance, even if I’m not who they want me to be.”

As she says the words, her heart tightens in her chest, and she finally makes herself open her eyes. They feel true, undeniably so, and even as she presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to control herself, she can’t help but think that maybe she owes them the same chance. Maybe she’s had enough time on her own.

Maybe it’s time that she goes back to where she belongs.

She might not make it for Thanksgiving dinner, but if she drives through the night, maybe they’ll be kind enough to let her join them for breakfast. It’ll be somewhere to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	25. Three-Hundred Thirty-One: Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s mostly asleep when the shower finally turns off in the other room, bringing a proper sort of quiet that makes it easier to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cozy and shower-fresh.

Dean’s mostly asleep when the shower finally turns off in the other room, bringing a proper sort of quiet that makes it easier to relax. Still, though, he listens; it’s hard to miss the shuffling of fabric or the sticky tap-tap of bare feet on tiled floor, and sure enough, moments later, the bathroom door clicks open, letting a strip of white light into the bedroom that presses against the backs of Dean’s eyelids for a moment before it’s switched off.

Sam’s almost silent as he moves, a towel and dirty clothes finding their home in a pile of laundry before he comes closer, and then the mattress shifts under his weight, leaving Dean to huff out a breathy little grumble while his brother gets settled. Whatever vague sense of discontent the disturbance has caused is quickly overpowered by the urge to wiggle closer, and that he does, seeking out the warmth of Sam’s body and the shower-softness of his bare skin.

“Hey,” Sam breathes out, almost a laugh, but his arms wrap tight and safe around Dean’s middle and that’s the only thing Dean cares about for the time being. Sam smells good, too, like something delicate and sacred and pure. Something soft and flowery, maybe, but Dean won’t admit he recognizes the scent of lavender. “S’okay, I’m here. Go back to sleep, man.”

Dean makes a sound that isn’t quite a real word, and pushes his nose into the crook of Sam’s arm, getting himself good and comfortable there. He curls an arm around his brother’s waist, and that’s where he settles, wondering quietly in the back of his sleep-hazy mind how Sam keeps his skin so soft.

He’s a tiny bit thankful that Sam doesn’t read minds.

Another soft laugh, and Dean feels Sam’s lips pressed to his forehead, just for a moment. It gives him a whiff of Sam’s hair and it’s a little stronger, a little fresher. Eucalyptus, maybe, or something minty. It’s comforting and familiar and good. “Night, Dean,” he whispers, and Dean just nuzzles a little bit closer, eyes already shut.

He falls asleep with shower-soft brother smell sending him drifting, and he thinks there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	26. Three-Hundred Thirty-Two: Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s tongue pokes out between his lips in concentration as he tucks in the end of the towel _just_ so, making sure that not a single hair escapes and that the entire bundle of fabric is piled right on top of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny Dean.

Dean’s tongue pokes out between his lips in concentration as he tucks in the end of the towel  _just_  so, making sure that not a single hair escapes and that the entire bundle of fabric is piled right on top of his head. He stretches up on his tip-toes to peek at his reflection in the mirror that hangs above the counter and grins, wide and bright, before wrapping a bigger and fluffier towel around his shoulders and hurrying out of the bathroom, intent on finding his momma.

“Momma!” he calls, just about toppling over under the weight of the towel on his head as he scurries about, managing to keep it all upright and in position. “Momma?”

He finds her sitting in her rocking chair when he peeks into Sammy’s nursery and smiles again, letting himself in and immediately scrambling into her lap when she laughs and opens her arms for him. “You’re looking especially clean today.”

“Look, I did it!” he says, reaching up to pat both his hands against the towel bundled on top of his head. “Jus’ like you!”

Her smile goes all soft as she settles him in her lap and hugs him tight, leaving Dean giggling as he snuggles against her. His towel is getting a little lopsided, and it’ll probably fall off his head sooner than later, but that doesn’t seem too important right now. “You did,” she agrees. “Does this make you the prince of bathtime?”

Dean’s eyes go all big and round with the proposed title and he nods quickly, which just happens to be the last straw as far as the towel clinging to his head goes. It slips off and lands in a little heap on the floor, but he’s too busy hugging his momma again to care. “Yeah! I’m the king, an’- an’ that means Momma’s the queen, an’ Daddy’s the king, and Sammy can be the princess!”

“Is that so?” Her eyes are sparkling when Dean peeks up at her and it’s got him feeling all warm inside, so he curls himself into her arms once more. “I think I like the sound of that, little prince.”

Dean settles right there, humming happily while his momma starts rocking the chair again, slow and gentle. His eyelids are drooping soon enough and he relaxes against her with a little yawn. He usually naps after his bathtime, anyways, so it won’t be a big deal if he just… closes his eyes.

He dozes off to the soft sound of humming, coming from somewhere warm and safe and familiar in a way that no one else has ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	27. Three-Hundred Thirty-Three: Bunny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bunny,” Dean mumbles, lying very still in place. “Bunny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft baby Dean.

“Bunny,” Dean mumbles, lying very still in place. “Bunny.”

He’s sprawled out on his tummy in the ever-lengthening grass of his backyard. Daddy hasn’t mowed the lawn in a few weeks, which makes it perfect for hiding, and Dean’s taking advantage of that as he rests his chin on his folded arms and watches the fluffy little creature across the yard. 

It’s springtime, and his momma says that it means all the baby bunnies are out and about now, but the one he sees is too big to be a baby, he thinks. Sammy’s a baby, and he looks way littler than the bunny does, even from all the way across the yard. He thinks maybe that it would fit in his arms, if he got close enough to give it a hug, but they scare real easy, so he stays right where he is, careful not to make a sound.

It’s a brown bunny, and her ears are pointing straight up as she slowly makes her way along the edge of his momma’s flower garden. She stops sometimes to nibble at the grass, and Dean just watches, wide-eyed and transfixed and wondering if her fur is as soft as it looks.

He holds her breath as she moves a little bit closer, close enough that he can see her little nose twitching while she sniffs the air. Dean wonders if she can smell the green apple shampoo his momma massaged into his hair last night at bathtime, and shifts a little to try to give himself an assessing sniff.

The bunny pauses in place when he moves and Dean immediately freezes in place, watching her as she watches him back. A few tense moments pass, and then she turns away, slowly hopping off towards the little hole in the fence where she disappears most days. Once she’s out of sight, Dean relaxes a little bit, slumping down in place against the ground, and breathes out slowly.

“Bunny,” he sighs. “M’gonna be your friend, bunny.”

He pushes himself to his feet and turns back to the house to hurry inside, already excited to tell his baby brother about how close the bunny got today, ‘cause Sammy makes happy little coos for him whenever he talks. It’s just a matter of time, Dean’s sure, before he’ll have a bunny all for himself, and Sammy can meet her in person, even. He’s just gotta be real patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	28. Three-Hundred Thirty-Four: Piercing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn’t need to look up to see the way his brother is fidgeting in the corner of his eye, so he keeps his attention on his math homework when he speaks. “The girl said not to touch it, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets an ear pierced.

Sam doesn’t need to look up to see the way his brother is fidgeting in the corner of his eye, so he keeps his attention on his math homework when he speaks. “The girl said not to touch it, Dean.”

Dean goes still for all of four seconds before he’s restless again on the other side of the little table crammed in the corner of their motel room. Sam tries not to roll his eyes as he looks up, but the sight of his big brother with a deeply furrowed brow and one bright red ear is too much for him to stop a tiny smile from sneaking through. “Still hurts, huh?”

“Does not.” Dean makes a face at him, and Sam throws a not-so-subtle glance down towards where Dean’s got his hands on the table, half-curled into loose fists, fingertips rubbing anxiously at the chipped wooden surface. “I’m fine. Didn’t even hurt when she did it.”

Considering the cramp Sam got in his hand from how hard Dean’s was squeezing it, he finds that a little bit hard to believe. “So what are you gonna tell Dad, anyway?”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

It’s possibly the most rebellion Sam’s ever seen his brother display and he sinks a little lower in his chair like it’ll make it easier to pass his laugh off as a violent cough. “Dude, you look like Rudolph the Red-Eared Reindeer. He’s not blind.”

Defiantly, Dean reaches up to rub at the ear in question, and Sam’s eyes are drawn again to the small crystal stud that now decorates the lobe. It doesn’t look half-bad, and Sam figures it’ll be even better once the swelling goes down, however long that might take. “Shut up.”

Sam ducks his head to hide his grin and pretend like he’s working again, picking up his pencil and tapping his fingertips over its length a couple times before speaking once more, casual. “You know what they say about getting just your left ear pierced?”

Maybe he’s a little shit, but the way Dean perks up to attention just makes his smile grow. “What? They say something? S’that why the girl looked at me funny?”

“Nothin’.” Sam has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek. He takes a little too much pleasure in torturing his big brother, sometimes. “They don’t say anything, Dean.”

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him for another few minutes before his brother grumbles and goes back to twirling his new stud the way he’s been told. Sam’s left grinning to himself while he finishes up with his algebra, entirely too amused with the entire situation.

Dean’s rebellious phase lasts about two hours before he’s leaned in as close as he can physically be to the bathroom mirror trying to figure out how to remove the stud, but Sam’s pretty sure he keeps it, after the fact, pierced through his wallet. They don’t own a whole lot of shiny things, and Dean a lot more nostalgic than he tries to let on.

Sam doesn’t call him on it, though, ‘cause he’s got a handful of pictures of the whole event, and he doesn’t intend to let them go any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	29. Three-Hundred Thirty-Five: Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t mean to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small Dean.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Dean is doing his very best not to cry as he keeps his eyes firmly on the place where his socked toes curl against the kitchen floor. In the corner of his gaze, he can still see the shards of the crystal glass he’d accidentally toppled to the floor while his parents were out of the room in pursuit of the plate of fresh cookies cooling on the counter. He’s got the bottom of his shirt fisted in both hands, twisting it up like it’ll make things better and feeling very alone and very small under his momma’s eyes.

What he doesn’t expect is to be suddenly scooped up off his feet into a pair of warm, familiar arms, and he can’t help his squeaky little hiccup when his daddy cradles him close, breathing out a sigh that ruffles his hair. “It’s okay, buddy,” he murmurs, and Dean doesn’t hesitate to curl against him, hiding his face in Daddy’s chest. Maybe he can cry here and no one’ll even notice. “It was just an accident.”

“But it’s Momma’s favourite,” Dean mumbles, and he squeezes his eyes shut to try to hide the tears that manage to slip free. He’s a big brother now and he shouldn’t cry like a baby, but that thought just makes him tremble, feeling his daddy’s arms tighten around him to hold him closer.. “An’ now it’s all broken.”

“It’s just a bit of glass, baby.” It’s Momma’s voice, now, and suddenly she’s right there, her hand finding Dean’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “We can just buy another one. It’s okay.”

“Just be more careful next time, alright?” His daddy sounds a little bit stern, but still soft in a way that makes it a little easier for Dean to uncurl from himself, snuffling a bit. “You gave us a good scare, Deano.”

Dean makes a face as he remembers how deafeningly loud the sound of the glass breaking had been. “M’sorry.”

“We know.” His momma’s hand brushes through his hair and he can’t help but move towards it, peeking up at her. “How about we try some of those cookies, okay? I’ll clean up the glass, and maybe we can get a nice, big glass of milk to go with them, hm?”

Dean nods quickly, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes like he never even cried at all. “Yeah,” he mumbles, trying to smile. “Okay.”

Daddy doesn’t put him down until all the glass is in the garbage, and soon enough, they’re all sitting at the table together nibbling on the cookies. They’re just as yummy as they smelled, but Dean feels even better about eating them now that he’s not doing it all by himself. 

He gets a kiss on the cheek from his momma and a small tummyache after his cookies, but by the time he wanders up to his bedroom to snuggle down for a nap, his distress is forgotten and he’s settled down within seconds. Maybe accidents aren’t such a big deal, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
